Before the point of no return
by Martina
Summary: Not so much a character exploration as a character confirmation, by means of a briefly-lived OC named Rory. She's done something very bad, and now she has to face the consequences. Please R&R.


**AN/ **Shall not be continued. This is the story as I wanted to tell it. Not so much a character exploration as a character _confirmation_.Placed on the timeline of the series anywhere after the episode 'Chivalry'. Enjoy. And, as I am a shameless feedback slut, I'm not at all above begging you to R&R.

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A small woman struck a lonely figure, sauntering around in front of a large warehouse, rather like a five-year-old that's lost its mother at K-Mart and has not yet decided whether or not this is a good thing. She was wearing a long black woollen coat, flapping heavily in the wind. It was cut cleverly to suggest the shapely curve of a figure underneath, and accessorized by a pair of grubby trainers, a dull red beanie and the hood of a grey jumper, lending to the whole that clumsily rebellious effect that suggests the wearer is a little unsure of when to stop conforming.

She turned around a bit aimlessly, fished into a pocket of the coat and produced a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. She lit one, awkwardly passing it from hand to hand to lips to keep it from burning the edges of fingerless gloves, and sat down on the bottom step of the six or so to the warehouse entrance. This was a position that put elbows in the way of knees and vice versa, so she moved one up, leaned heavily forward on her knees. She took deep stressful drags of the sort that try to suck out the last bit of comfort before a difficult exam and looked despondently at her surroundings. There wasn't much comfort in _them. _

The warehouse stood stiff and forlorn at the edge of town, in the middle of a wide stretch of abandoned industrial estate. Any other buildings had long been flattened, the rubble removed, for no other apparent reason than not to have it lying around _there_, and pale rectangles of unenclosed work floor betrayed where they had stood, like unmarked graves. Only the warehouse itself, three storeys high, blackened brick and large square greasy windows, stubbornly remained. It stood out like the metaphorical sore thumb.

In sharp contrast with this bleak post-apocalyptic-like scenery were the clouds of that harmless fluffy kind, dotted about above. They out-raced, in the strong wind, a white crystallized double tail of an aeroplane at full altitude. The stark blue expanse of sky sat patiently behind this playfulness. Scattered tufts of grass along the roads and edges of floors picked up and echoed back its unforgiving blueness. Blue and green, in some languages, don't have separate names. There seemed to be an undefinable link between the sky and the earth that went beyond how neatly they fitted around the edges; a conspiracy of colour and composition, catching the woman between the rock and the, well, very big cold place.

She didn't exactly think any of these things as she watched. They just hovered at the brink of awareness, creeping up as a vague sense of unease and foreboding. Oddly, considered that part of her mind that wasn't currently thinking itself in circles around all the different angles of what had happened and what was to come, it was rather an appropriate setting for this encounter.

For once, she could see him before sensing him: the other immortal, homing in at a leisurely yet purposeful pace. Had this been the middle of the savannah and she some class of a wildabeast minding its own business, the sight of him would have been like that suspicious v-shaped ripple in the tall grass. She shuddered involuntarily, took a last drag of her cigarette which caught and burnt a few stray strands of hair in the process. Annoyed, she tossed the butt aside and tried to smooth her hair down into the collar of her coat. The faint smell of the burnt hair tickled her nostrils. She stood up and tried to compose herself, ran nervous fingers past buttons and soft black wool.

Something stirred inside her, just as the other immortal's quickening touched hers and dissipated quickly, the source having already been located.

"Be quiet, old man," she muttered. "It'll all be over soon, one way or another."

They faced each other now. She folded her hands modestly at crotch level, tried to stop herself shivering, and met his eyes.

Duncan MacLeod, of the Clan MacLeod.

"I am."

"Oh," she said, "I didn't realize I'd said that aloud."

"And Rory Becker," said the Highlander evenly.

"Of no clan or affiliation of any type," added Rory. Her grin withered when she noticed MacLeod's expression not changing.

He'd had his katana resting at ease against the back of his arm, and now changed his grip and gave it a gentle twirl. "I don't imagine it is much of a comfort, but I hate having to do this."

"And _I _hate having to break this to you," said Rory, spreading her hands slowly, "but I'm not armed."

MacLeod looked ruffled, but only very slightly. He rallied almost immediately. "Alright, keep your hands out where I can see them, and don't be reaching into any pockets."

"I told you," said Rory, lifting her hands further away from her body, "I'm not armed. That means no guns either."

"Not surprisingly, I don't trust your word on that."

A chill ran through Rory while part of her considered, not for the first time, that this might not have been the best choice of tactic, if one could call it that. In fact, an absence of tactic or scheme had seemed like a good idea, if the knowledge she now possessed of the man facing her was anything to go by. She was at a loss for words for a moment, and just stared at him, aware of how very small and awkward and completely inadequate she seemed in comparison, which was part of the reason why coming unarmed had seemed the best way to go. She couldn't have beaten him anyway, and she wasn't kidding herself about that. Besides, in some strange way, there was no fight to be fought, but a _decision _to be made.

"That's what _he _said," she said now. "But he didn't listen to his better judgement in the end. I know you won't make the same mistake. So, fine, guns or no guns, I'll keep my hands where you can see them."

"So what do you want?" said MacLeod simply.

"To talk."

"About? I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm not trying to be heartless, but it doesn't seem to me there's anything left to say."

"This isn't like you, MacLeod," said Rory, shaking her head slightly, as if disappointed. "Revenge isn't in your code of honour. Nor is killing an unarmed opponent."

"I see," said MacLeod, eyes narrowing, "the old man been giving you advice, has he?"

"Not on how to beat you, no. The knowledge may be mine now, but so is everything else. I may know you as well as he did, but I've also gathered a notion or two about the old bastard himself. Had it come down to you or him, he would not have hesitated. You know this. And that bit of him is inside me too. But it's all different now."

"Is it, really?" said MacLeod, in a tone as if the thought had only just occurred to him.

"Yes. It's not you and him. It's you and me. What's the point of survival at any cost if you're already dead? These five thousand years of memory are not mine, MacLeod. I have only thirty of my own, and considering what they've amounted to so far, I should be grateful for them."

MacLeod connected the dots. "You _want _me to take your head?"

"Hell, no! I couldn't have this much of Methos in me and want to die. Or any of myself, really, when you get right down to it. I'd be thrilled to walk away from this. But if I'd fought you, that wouldn't have happened, would it?"

"Without cheating, probably not." He glanced suspiciously at her hands, which were still a long way from any visible pocket. "So what are you saying? It's up to me? I decide?" He looked horrified at the thought.

"Didn't you decide when you challenged me?" Rory pointed out.

MacLeod shifted his feet uneasily, loud in the gravel and the desolate silence. Chivalry is, after all, such a bitch. "The old man informed you well. Very well. You know I won't do it. Not like this. You're still cheating. Leave it to Methos to find a way to cheat without any cards of his own."

"Still, it's an honourable way of cheating, isn't it?"

"I wasn't aware there was such a thing."

Rory smiled vaguely. "Coming here, even knowing what I know about you, or perhaps _precisely _knowingwhat I know about you, it's practically suicide. I'm a cheat. I don't play the game fairly, or at least I didn't," she corrected herself quickly, "and that makes me too dangerous to be left alive. You won't risk me taking any more innocent heads. In the old Japanese culture – and you know this, or that's not a fifteenth century Katana you're holding there – suicide was the only way to preserve what honour is left when one has been dishonoured."

"Interesting point," said MacLeod, entering – up to some level – into the spirit of the thing, which appeared to have a lot of amateuristic philosophy about it. He pointed with the Katana. "But _you're not _Japanese. And neither is Methos," he added. "And if he was, he probably still wouldn't have given a fiddler's fart about tradition."

"Alright," said Rory, grinning impishly and rather more bright than the occasion seemed to warrant, "you have me there. So perhaps I haven't a prayer for honour left. But I have dignity. Not much, but some. I couldn't have beaten you, that stands beyond reason. I never had that skill. Methos did. Maybe you don't know that, but he could have beaten you easily, if he wanted to. Puts a bit of a new spin on your friendship with him, doesn't it? In any case, while that skill is in my head, it's not in my body. I'm not quick or strong or, for that matter, tall enough. His way of fighting is useless for me."

"It's still not like him to just surrender."

"True. But I'm not him. I need you to understand what's going on in my head at the moment. There's five thousand plus years of Methos, and thirty years of Rory. Given some time, I haven't an ice cube's chance in hell to stand up to him. And what he's got going on is no longer just survival for the sake of survival. He's already dead, remember? It's turned into a majority interest thing. Having him in your head – and you can take my word on that – can probably easily outweigh a few dozen other immortals' quickenings added together. So what he needs is somebody who will _listen _to him. I do, but I could get killed any day by someone a good deal older and more powerful, and it would be harder for him to get heard, to go on _existing_. Because that's the crux of it. Not living, but existing. _You _would listen too. Don't ask me how he's worked that one out. I know, his code of honour, or lack thereof, is not yours. You would never act as he would have done. I know. Still, this seems to be what he wants."

"I don't get it. Who am I really talking to here?"

"Me, Rory Becker, the one with a couple of tons of Methos in her head."

"I see."

"I don't think you do. Not yet. You say you won't do it, but perhaps the old man knows you better than you know yourself. It was my idea, MacLeod, _I _did it. _I _cheated. _I _pretended not to know what I was and then shot him when his back was turned. There's a lot still I could have done to squirm my way off the hook. If I told you it was my teacher who put me up to it, you might even have believed me. There are dozens of ways I could have worked the pity angle. It was self-defense. I wanted to impress my teacher who is never kind to me. Whatever. It doesn't matter. Because I need to tell you the truth. It was my idea. I killed your friend."

They seemed to have reached a stalemate. MacLeod hesitated, but only for a few moments, traces of the decision reached already etching themselves in his face. His eyes softened. "No, maybe I don't quite see. Not yet. And I won't any time soon. You came here unarmed, ready to face whatever had to happen. Regardless of what was said before, there is honour in that. Also, it's proof enough for me that you won't cheat again. And, of course, you know that if you do, I'll be right behind you. I do hate revenge. But only up to a certain point." He lowered the Katana finally, gingerly tucked it back up behind his arm. "The old man should have known better than to think I would take your head only because he wanted me to." At this, he turned and walked away, slowly, dignified, gravel grinding underfoot.

Rory grinned at his back. With every step he took, her grin broadened until it had reached that point where it was a stark, mad grimace. Her hand fumbled in the pocket containing the cigarettes, drew them out along with the lighter. She lit one, hung it low in the corner of her mouth and reached into the pocket again.

Sunlight glinted dull off a big chunk of metal.

She aimed and fired.

MacLeod fell. There wasn't enough life left in him to glance back over his shoulder even once, sparing her the look of accusation, the guilt. If any would have been felt.

She sauntered over to his prone form to pull his own Katana from his hand.

"Can't you always be counted upon to be so presumptuous as to judge who should have known better?" she said in an oddly deep voice. "Chivalry is a bitch, isn't it? I can't wait to find out what that's like." Before the stroke fell, awkward with inexperience though effective enough, she glanced up at the sky. The rock and the big cold place. It wasn't much of a choice, after all was said and done. Better an insignificant little cloud in the endless sky than, well, headless. Wasn't it?


End file.
